


Everything Good

by TheLonelyJournalKeeper



Category: Ni No Kuni: Wrath of the White Witch, Ni no Kuni
Genre: Absent Parents, Canon Compliant, Children, Family, Family Feels, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Minor Original Character(s), Missing Persons, One Shot, Original Character Death(s), Parenthood, Questions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 16:06:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13193634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLonelyJournalKeeper/pseuds/TheLonelyJournalKeeper
Summary: Oliver asks where his father is.Esther wonders when her mother will return home.Marcassin wants to know if Gascon remembers their mother.





	Everything Good

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Luna_Myth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luna_Myth/gifts).



Alicia was about to get started on dinner when Oliver came home from school. At six years old, he was young to be walking home alone, but nothing bad ever happened in Motorville. Alicia had been here for seven years and she knew everyone in town. She knew that the teachers would see the kids safely out of the building and to the sidewalk and that a safety officer would see the children across each crossing and that Miss Leila would peek through the window of her shop as Oliver walked across the sidewalk outside to see that he was alright. 

And then at the same time each day, Alicia would look up from what she was doing—playing music or cooking or reading—at the sound of Oliver’s little feet tromping through the unlocked doorway into the house and she would go and hug her son. 

Today was no different. She set down her book and went to the door and he was sitting there on the floor with his backpack beside him, struggling to take off his shoes. He looked up at her when she knelt beside him to help. 

“Mommy!” he said in his tiny six-year-old voice. 

“Good afternoon, Oliver.” She smiled. “Did you have a good day at school?”

He nodded and kicked off his remaining shoe. “It was fun! We made family pictures in art class!” 

“Oh, did you now?” she said, standing up. 

“Uh huh!” Oliver said, standing up also and following his mother into the kitchen. “I drew me and you!” 

“Do I get to see it?”

“We’re not finished with them yet. We get to take them home tomorrow,” Oliver said, plopping down on a seat at the kitchen table. 

“Oh, that’s lovely, sweetie.” She smiled at him from where she was chopping vegetables. 

“Mommy, I have a question,” he said seriously. 

She paused in her vegetable chopping. “Oh? What is it?” She had a guess. She’d known this was coming—the day her son would ask some unanswerable questions and the day she would have to lie. 

“All of the other kids have daddies. How come I don’t have one?” 

She considered the question. She knew the answer—you’re the pure-hearted one, your soulmate is the Dark Djinn, and you were born from pure magic. But that was a lot for a six-year-old and even more for one born in Motorville. 

So instead she said, “You have one. Everyone has one.” 

“Oh.” Oliver frowned, thinking hard. “Then where is he?” 

And she said, “He’s not here. He’s some place far away.” _Someplace far away._ The Other Kingdom. That was what she always called it. _I’m from someplace far away. You won’t have heard of it._

“Okay,” Oliver said, believing her. “Why isn’t he here?” 

“Because he couldn’t come with me when I came here,” she said simply. It was true in a way. No one could have come with her when she left. 

Oliver nodded thoughtfully. “Mommy, what does he look like?” 

Alicia set down her kitchen knife and closed her eyes. The memory was impossibly old, but she remembered it with perfect clarity. A Bellicosian soldier with reddish brown hair and blue eyes and a heart full of ambition. 

“He looks just like you, Oliver,” she said. 

“Really?” Oliver said. 

She nodded. It was striking really, how much they resembled each other even if that was the way of soulmates. Oliver was so young and already he reminded her so much of Lucien. “You have his eyes and his hair and he was handsome, just like you are.” 

Oliver laughed. “Can you tell me more, Mommy?”

Alicia nodded thoughtfully. “He was very brave and incredibly kind. He thought he was going to make the world a better place.” 

“And did he?” Oliver asked. 

Alicia smiled sadly. “Yes.” 

“He sounds like a hero!” Oliver said excitedly. 

She nodded again. “He was and you remind me so much of him. You’re going to grow up to be a hero, just like he was.” 

“I am?” Oliver said, wide-eyed. 

“Of course you are, sweetie!” Alicia said, smiling. He was everything good about Lucien and none of the bad and she was so proud of him. 

* * *

Every day since Liza had left, Esther had asked her father the same question: “When is mother coming home?”

And every day, Rashaad had answered the same thing: “Soon, my daughter.” It had been almost a month and Rashaad was starting to doubt it. 

This was something Liza had always done and it wasn’t something Rashaad begrudged her. She hadn’t ever _left_ them because she always set out with the intent to return. Liza had the heart of an adventurer and these were her quests. She always returned with a good story and a gift for Esther and Rashaad. 

But usually she returned within a few days. The most she had gone before had been two weeks and when she had returned home she had apologized profusely and promised not to go on such a dangerous quest again. Liza had understood that she was part of a family and she wanted to be there for them. She had said she wouldn’t do anything so dangerous from now on.

And Rashaad, who loved her and Esther, had believed her. 

Gods, he was worried about her, but he didn’t want to show it. Esther was so young and upsetting her would only make matters worse, but he was going to have to say something sooner or later. 

Sighing, he found his daughter in the town square. She was playing with the pigeons. Some of the children chased the pigeons, laughing when the birds flew away in a big grey cloud. Others tried to catch them, sneaking as close to the pigeons as they could before they took off in fright. Esther didn’t do either of those things. She would play a skipping game in the square and sing nonsense songs Liza had taught her and the pigeons would come right up to her, alighting on the ground near her feet or, on more than one occasion, land on her shoulders and outstretched hands. Because of this, Esther had taken to bringing leftover white bread to feed them. 

When Liza had seen this, she’d beamed with pride, putting her hands on her hips and saying, “Just like her mother!” and when she was home, Liza would go to the square with Esther and the two would feed the pigeons together and Rashaad would watch, the both of them tall and blonde and bright like the desert sun, and feel very grateful to have the two of them in his life. 

The town square was quite empty today aside from the usual crew of merchants selling curry or babanas. Esther was standing beside one of the milk fountains with one of her arms outstretched. A fat grey pigeon rested in the palm of her small hand, cooing at her. She cooed back and brushed loose blonde hair out of her face.

“Father!” she said, spotting him out of the corner of her eye. She turned around and the pigeon took off with a disgruntled coo. 

“Esther,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I am going away for a short while…on business. Would you like to stay with the neighbors? I will return tomorrow evening.”

Her face fell. “You’re going away?” 

“Only for a short while,” he assured her. 

“Then—then! I’ll come with you!” she said. 

The corner of Rashaad’s mouth twitched as he tried not to smile. “No, Esther, you are not old enough yet.” 

“But what if you don’t come back?” she said, staring at him with big, pleading, blue eyes. 

“I will,” he said firmly. 

And she believed him. “Safe travels, Father!” She hugged him tightly and he stroked her hair. Then she scampered off to the neighbors’ house and Rashaad raised his staff. He drew the sign for _Travel_ in the air and disappeared. 

He drew the sign again and again, but in every place he looked, he could find no sign of Liza. None of the Purrprietors at the Cat’s Cradle had seen her. Not a single Hootenanny could remember her. None of the merchants knew where she was. It was as though Liza had simply vanished. 

Sunset was fast approaching when Rashaad, weary and defeated, finally returned home to Al Mamoon. 

Esther was waiting for him outside the neighbor’s house and she threw herself into his arms with relief. “Father, you’re home!” 

“Yes,” he said, holding her tightly. “I’m sorry I am late. The trip did not go quite as well as I hoped.” 

Esther’s face took on an unusually serious expression. “Father, when is mother coming home?” 

Rashaad sighed heavily. “Do you want the truth, my brave daughter?” 

Esther nodded, frowning. “Of course.” 

“I do not know.”

Esther let out a soft gasp. “You don’t know?” 

“I had expected her to have returned by now,” Rashaad confessed.

“B-but she’s coming back, isn’t she?” she said, lip trembling. 

“I hope so, but I must be honest with you: I do not know that either. Esther,” he said, “we must be brave.” 

“Brave,” she repeated. “I can be brave.” 

Rashaad hugged her hard. “I know you can. You are your mother’s daughter.”

And so, Esther stopped asking. 

* * *

Gascon was fifteen years old, angry, and he hated a lot of things. He hated spells that were too difficult to cast and uncomfortable formalwear and the way his father sneered and he hated today—the worst day of the year. Though Gascon was angry with his father year round, today he was intolerable—not because he was harsher or more demanding than usual, but because he was sad. The Emperor was moody and withdrawn and that was somehow even more unbearable to Gascon than his usual demeanor. The atmosphere in the palace was suffocating with the Emperor emanating a thick miasma of gloom and the staff on edge because of it.

Gascon had leapt at the first opportunity to get out of there. Today, misery did not love company. Misery wanted to be alone. 

What Gascon hadn’t counted on was being followed. He’d scarcely made it onto main street before he noticed the small black-haired boy behind him. 

Rolling his eyes, Gascon turned around. “Marcassin, what are you doing here?” 

His brother stammered in reply. “I-I wanted to come with you.”

“Why?” Gascon said. “It’s not like I’m going anywhere interesting.”

“I-I didn’t want to stay in the palace alone,” Marcassin said, wide-eyed and pleading. 

Gascon’s gaze softened and he sighed. “Alright, come on then.” 

Marcassin smiled tentatively and the two of them set off into the city. “Where are we going, brother?” 

“I dunno yet,” Gascon replied. 

“Okay.” 

They kept walking in silence for a few moments. Gascon led them down a back-alley and towards a dingy little shop.

Marcassin was the first one to speak. “Why is Father so upset?” 

“Don’t you know what day it is?” Gascon said in answer. 

“Is there something special about today?” Marcassin said innocently.

“You could say that,” Gascon said. “Today’s the day Mother died.” 

“Oh,” Marcassin said quietly. “I didn’t know.” 

“Well, I don’t suppose you would remember, and it’s not like we make a thing of it.” Gascon kept walking. There was silence for a few moments. 

“Do you remember?” Marcassin asked. 

“Remember what?” Gascon said evasively. 

“Mother.” 

Gascon paused, drawing up short outside the shop. “Yeah, I do.”Most of the memories were faint; he had been only eight—the same age Marcassin was now—when she had died, but some of the memories were sharp like knives and bright like jewels. 

Marcassin looked shaken. “I don’t remember anything about her.” 

“You were only a year old. I don’t know how you would.” He sat down on a crate outside the shop. The owner probably wouldn’t shout at him for loitering; they were friends. Also, he was the crown prince of Hamelin. Ostensibly. 

Marcassin sat down next to him and neither of them spoke for a moment, but Gascon didn’t move to stand up. He had a feeling there was something Marcassin wanted to say. 

“Gascon,” he spoke at last, his young voice soft and gentle. “Can you tell me about her?” 

Gascon let out a breath of air slowly. “I don’t remember much, but you take after her. You certainly don’t look anything like Father.” 

Marcassin nodded, eyes wide with interest. 

“She had long dark hair and bright blue eyes like you and she was always so gentle. She never got angry and Father could never get angry with her either. I think she was the only person who could always calm him down. I guess that role falls to you now. And she was good at magic, of course,” Gascon said. “But she studied science too. She designed a lot of experimental technology for the research division, steam-powered engines and magic-powered lighting and some weapons too.” He’d looked over every schematic and blueprint of hers he could get his hands on. All of them were seriously brilliant. She must’ve been a genius. 

“Wow,” Marcassin murmured. 

“Yeah. I remember…she would work on designs in the library and she would go through pages and pages of paper until she finally made one she was satisfied with. She used to read manuals and books on engineering aloud to herself and I would listen sometimes. I don’t think I knew what the words meant, but I liked the sound of them.” It had been more than seven years ago now. He couldn’t remember the words, but he remembered the feeling of sitting in the library, paging through books with diagrams of machinery, and listening to the murmur of his mother’s voice floating through the air. 

“What kind of magic did she use?” Marcassin asked breathlessly. 

Right. Of course he’d want to hear about that. “A lot of defense and everyday spells. _Healing Hand_ and _Ward_ and _Magic Lamp_ and things like that.” 

“Did she have a Familiar?” 

“I…don’t remember. I think she did, but I can’t remember what it was called,” Gascon frowned. 

“Oh. That’s alright.” 

“Was it a Thumbelemur?” he murmured, almost to himself. “Or a Sprog-Cog?” 

Marcassin said nothing. 

Gascon sighed and stood up. “Never mind. I’m going. Come along if you like.” He pushed his way into the shop. Marcassin stood up and followed. 

The shop was small and dimly lit but clean and filled with interesting curios. The owner of the shop, a portly and dark-haired man, looked up when they entered. 

“You again, huh?” the man said, sounding amused. “I don’t know what I’ve done to draw _your_ attention to my humble little shop, but suit yourself.” 

Gascon rolled his eyes. “You got anything interesting in?” 

“I might, I might,” the man said. He was looking off to Gascon’s left. “Who’s that you brought with you?” 

Marcassin stepped forward. “My name is Prince Marcassin.” 

The man laughed. “My name’s Abel. What’re you doing in my shop?” 

“He followed me here,” Gascon replied.

Marcassin nodded. 

“Alright. Welcome to the Black Market, Prince Marcassin,” Abel said with an ironic grin. 

“Thank you,” Marcassin said solemnly.

“Now that introductions are out of the way,” Gascon said. “Do you have anything for me?” Despite his attempts to maintain his aloofness, his excitement shown through slightly and Abel chuckled. 

“Here. Take a look at this,” he said, pulling a box from the shelf and opening it. 

Gascon peered forward. Inside was a complicated mechanism, the likes of which he had never seen before. Nonetheless, he was quickly able to determine its function. It was a key component for a special mechanized gun. The sort of gun he’d had on his mind for a while now. The sort of gun he’d thought about building ever since he saw a particular design of his mother’s. 

“Brilliant,” he said. 


End file.
